


Handy

by holograms



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Mentions of incest, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, Touch-Starved, jerkin’ off in the woods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 22:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20299216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: Jaime has to relearn more than sword-fighting with his left hand.





	Handy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [forpeaches (bluecarrot)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/gifts).

It’s the night after he leaves Harrenhal for second time that Jaime realizes he will have to relearn his cock as well as the blade.

He hadn’t thought much about his cock away from Cersei, and he certainly didn’t think about it when he lost his hand. But his cock is needy and he’s neglected it for too long. It lifted in the bath despite being delirious with fever and despite having only the ugliest woman he’s ever seen for company. He can’t stop thinking about it, that  _need_ . 

And now, he still only has the wench for company. He’s lying on the hard ground with a thin bedroll and a thinner blanket over him, and he stares at the back of her stubborn blonde head.

He’s stiff again.

Why must he endure so much misfortune?

He needs to resolve it, or else he won’t be able to sleep and he’s so _so_ bored. Bolton’s men sleep several feet away, and while Brienne is sleeping closer, she is snoring. He’s whispered her name and she hasn’t replied so—

And he goes to slip his hand into his trousers that he remembers. 

Ah.

Well, the gods gave men two hands for a reason, didn’t they? 

And he shoves his left hand inside but it’s all wrong — he’s clumsy and the grip isn’t as strong and he can’t get a good rhythm going. Like having to walk up stairs backwards and blindfolded. 

He spits in his hand and holds himself tighter. Tugs in quick strokes; one, two, three. Tries to replicate the motions his right was so practiced at, that he still _feels_ his right hand wanting to do. 

He might as well be fucking the wind for all the pleasure it’s giving him. 

If he can’t properly jerk off, how could he ever use a sword again? 

Would he be as terrible finger fucking his sweet sister with his left hand? At least he could still use his mouth on her. He’s good at that. Perhaps if he could contort his body he could get his mouth on his own cock. It would be better than this.

He feels himself begin to flag. He takes his hand out of his trousers and huffs, defeated.

He looks over at the wench. Brienne. She is asleep still. She had refused to rest the night before. She didn’t trust the men not to rape her. But then Jaime told her to stay close to him, and he supposes she trusted him not to — not to _harm_ her , because tonight she curled up next to him and fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. She’s so close to him that if he reaches out, he could touch her.

She had rid herself of that horrible dress that morning. They had found clothes that she’s more comfortable in, and she left the dress for some woodland creature to use for a nest. She asked him to keep watch while she changed. To turn the other way and make sure nobody came upon her and for him to  _not look._

“Why would I want to?” he asked. But he peeked. He looked over his shoulder when she was topless and he caught a glimpse of her back — what he did not see in the bath, where he saw her front and tits and apex of her cunt. It’s lovely, for a back. Muscular and a wide expanse of skin. He follows the curve her spine all the way down to the waistband of her trousers. Before he had to look away, he saw scars. Old. Healed. Long and straight lines. 

“You’ve been whipped,” he said, later. She stared at him. “Your back.”

“You looked,” she said.

“Couldn’t help myself.”

He really couldn’t.

She scowled at him. He almost told her what his father always told him, _be careful or your face might freeze like that, _and then just for her, _but who knows, it might help your situation._ But he didn’t. So he said nothing at all.

“It was my septa,” she said, her first words spoken in over an hour.

“What?”

“She whipped me.” She held her head high, proud. “She thought I shouldn’t spar with the boys. I didn’t care. She found out. She thought I was too dense for instruction, so I needed it beat into me.”

“How old were you?”

“Eleven.”

He thought of himself at that age. He had already been having lessons for years. He was knighted four years later.

“I assume that didn’t stop you,” he said.

A smirk. “Obviously.”

“Good for you.”

He wishes she were awake. They could talk, since he can’t get off. She’s a terrible conversationalist but at least she’s someone. And she isn’t creepy like Qyburn. He’d ask her more about her evil septa.  _How else were you bad? _ Maybe she would want to hear about his childhood. That he never was disciplined because his father didn’t care and everyone else was afraid to say or do anything that could offend the young lord.

Maybe she would care about his current predicament. _I’m horny but I can’t get off because my left hand is useless._ Maybe she would feel badly enough for him to assist. He is supposed to be in her care, after all—

Why would he think of that? And why would it make his cock twitch back to life and fill out again?

He must still have a fever. Or if he could just fucking _come_ all the blood could go back to his head and he wouldn’t think stuff like that anymore.

He puts his hand — only hand — back on himself. It’s better this time.

_Brienne has hands as big as mine_, he thinks. Perhaps bigger. They’re strong — she grabbed him from over the side of the bear pit and dragged him up. But they’re gentle, too. She cradled his limp body and washed him carefully as she would a newborn kitten. Nevertheless, they would feel good on his cock. She might be nervous but she would be resolute. She likes to be good at things. She would touch him and look up at him with those wide blue eyes for approval—

His breath hitches. He shouldn’t think of her like that. It’s impolite — she’s a lady — and she isn’t Cersei.

He thinks of her instead. His sister. Of her body he knows as well as his own. But all he can think of is what she’ll say when she sees him again. She won’t be happy. He’s useless now. Can’t fight, can’t fuck.

The thought of her evades him, as does his release. He chases it, and it goes further away. His wrist starts to ache.

She doesn’t think he’s useless. The wench. Brienne. She doesn’t think he’s less now without his hand. If anything she might like him better for it. He was that hand, he had thought, but she scolded him into living. Maybe his right hand belonged to Cersei; he joined the Kingsguard for her and she told him how to use his hand on her.

Brienne would be patient. She’s a maiden so she wouldn’t know any differently — and these are just thoughts. He doesn’t want to fuck her, but he’s lonely and she’s the only person who has showed him any kindness in over a year. That’s all.

He rubs his thumb over the head of his cock and smears sticky wet down the shaft. He imagines her doing it, with her strong, calloused hand. Hers would probably feel like his own, he realizes, and his traitorous cock leaks more, finally, some relief—

He wonders what she tastes like. Probably divine. He would run his nose through those soft curls, inhale her scent. Lick at her cunt. She’d beg, _please ser._ Her legs would fall open despite her trying to keep herself from it. Open up that pink for him that nobody else has feasted on. He’d dine from it gladly. Slide a finger into her tight cunt and lick up the wet. Rub her clit and watch her come undone, clench down on his finger. Fuck her with more, bury them inside her and suck on her clit. Spread her apart and stick his tongue inside, drink directly from the source. She’d come on his face, wet and her thighs quivering against his head.

That’s good. Yes. He pumps his fist harder. It’s awkward still, like when he first discovered this activity as a boy with his other hand. Better hand. But there’s friction and warmth and it’s good—

_You can’t go inside me,_ she’d tell him. But he knows she would want it.

He could go press against her right now, rub his cock on her ass. Slide her trousers off her hips and put his cock at her heat. In reality she would probably strangle him to death, but maybe not. The risk could be worth it. To get inside. For her to touch him. Nobody has touched him kindly for so so long. Not just his cock, but anywhere. He’s been kicked and dragged through mud and mutilated and left chained to a post for months and months and months where nobody touched him at all. Brienne was the first touch of kindness. Her palm to his forehead, checking for fever. Her touching his shoulder in the morning, checking if he were still alive. Holding him up while she washed him. Being touched again felt like being reborn.

_I need to stay a maiden,_ she would say. That wouldn’t be a problem. There’s more to sex than sticking his cock in her and pounding away, although he would want that very much. He’d take his cock and rub it against her cunt. It’d get nice and wet. She would moan, feeling his hardness graze her sensitive folds. He could fuck her like that, thrusting between her thighs. She’d squeeze them tight and he’d be on top of her, her hands clutching at his back and her gasping in his ear. Long legs wrapped around him. He would lick her breasts. Suck one at nipple while he rubbed at the other. _Feels good_, she’d say and that would nearly undo him. Faster, harder. He doesn’t need his other hand when he has this. Slippery wet between the two of them. Maybe he would accidentally slip inside her just once. Just beyond the entrance. Her cunt would be so open for him. It would take everything to not thrust deep inside, have what both of them want.

He bites down on his lip. He’s good at being quiet. Lots of practice fucking Cersei in her closet while the maid was in the other room.

...he would take Brienne off into the woods so he could fuck her until she cried out. Shouted his name. And we would, he would—

“Ser Jaime?”

He freezes, keeps his hand in his trousers. He’s thankful for the blanket on top of him as the wench looks over her shoulder at him.

“Yes?” His voice cracks.

“You were whimpering,” she says. “Are you alright?”

Ah, she is quite the maiden to believe those are sounds of pain. They are pain, in a way, he supposes.

He squeezes around the base of his cock. It drips onto his hand. He’s so close.

“I’m fine,” he says. “Go back to sleep, wench.”

Please. So he can have his thoughts of her in peace and he can come and he can move on with his life.

She gives him one last worried look, then she turns back over and quiets.

He doesn’t know if she’s asleep but he doesn’t care — he grips himself firm and moves his hand quick. He’s sure she hears it, the wet sounds and the _ah-ah-ah_ caught in his throat.

_You’re doing so good,_ she would say. Pet his hair. Kiss his cheek. _Go on. Show me._

His body tenses and his cock spurts and and throbs and releases more. Thick and warm over his hand. Relief.

He wipes his hand on the blanket. He stares at Brienne’s back. She is very quiet. So is he.

Sleep still evades him.

**Author's Note:**

> someone give Jaime a HUG


End file.
